Roads are like roots. Intrepid things, roaming the landscape in their thirst for use: for boots to grace their dirt or stones, or for weary paws and wheels to rattle over them. When they find it, they gorge themselves, swelling up and up until they tangle and knot, growing villages between their lattices. Then they must stretch out again, questing for grounds ever new. And so grows a country.
Roads....
